


Deianira

by SharpieStealr8200



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Always a girl sam, F/M, Female Sam Winchester, Gen, I should be writing my fic but here I am writing new things, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, One Shot, Samantha Winchester - Freeform, Technically this was an English assignment, Terrible writing, Unrelated Winchesters, really shitty, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 15:05:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7320085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpieStealr8200/pseuds/SharpieStealr8200
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Deianira, Deïanira, or Deianeira (/ˌdeɪ.əˈnaɪərə/; Greek: Δηϊάνειρα, Dēiáneira, or Δῃάνειρα, Dēáneira, [dɛːiáneːra]), also known as Dejanira, is a figure in Greek mythology whose name translates as "man-destroyer" or "destroyer of her husband".</p></blockquote>





	Deianira

The bartender set her drink down in front of her, with a warning that he’d have to take her keys soon or he’d cut her off. She paid him no mind, choosing instead to stare into the double shot of whiskey she’d ordered as though it held the answer to all her problems. It was his favorite drink. It seemed fitting for her to drink his favorite when all she wanted to do was forget about him. A betrayal of his memory, she thought. She couldn’t believe she had done it. 

‘Insanely tall. Long, chocolate brown hair, shoulders the size of the world and the narrowest waist you'd ever see. There’s no way you can miss him.’ That was all the information she had gotten on her last hit, right before she had to walk into another fight. There was no way she could’ve known what would happen. Her head was swimming with all the anger she had from years spent being dragged all across the continental 48, gearing up for her upcoming fight. She wasn’t thinking straight.

She hated the jobs, but they paid well enough, and any money is welcome money for a college student. It wasn’t like they were hard jobs, either; not for her. Having grown up as the daughter of an ex-marine-turned-bounty-hunter, she was well-accustomed to working around the law, and perhaps that was how she rationalized fighting in an underground ring and being a gun for hire while studying pre-law at Stanford University.

The crowd around her roared and cheered as she took down a man thrice her size. Just another day at work, three fights for three grand a piece and maybe a hit, if she was lucky or desperate for the cash. She didn’t need to work often, between the money she got from her jobs and the full ride to Stanford. By day, people knew her simply as the shy pre-law major that spent all her time not spent with her head in a book out of the dorms, making her unavailable to the lifestyle people tend to associate with freshmen like herself. By night, however, when she wasn’t busy with work, she was arm candy, just a pretty face in a crowd of thousands. 

She’s known him since she was four, and he was eight. They quickly became close friends, and when she had to leave Kansas, they promised they’d see each other again. Every time her father found something nearby, she begged to pay him a visit. Not a cruel man, he conceded, and over the years they’d developed a close friendship that could have easily turned into more, if only she could spend more than three weeks in one place. 

Emails and phone numbers exchanged, they tried their best to keep in touch over the years, until he got word of her acceptance into Stanford, close to where he lived. That was their chance. Four months into the semester, she spent almost all her free time in his office working on homework in his company, or in a restaurant no college student could ever afford. He bought her things she could only dream of having, having grown up on the road, while she gave him the life he never thought he’d get. They were happy together. She would never forgive herself. 

She couldn’t sleep well anymore since that night, not that sleeping came any easier before it, either. Sleeping well at night was a luxury she’d given up when she was nine, at the hands of her father. She’d close her eyes and see what happened happen all over again, while she was as powerless to stop it as she’d been the first time around. 

It was a cold night, chilly enough to make her long for his jacket. She knew that if he were around, he’d have given it to her. The weather mattered very little to her then. She had her scope set, shot lined up with the door. Any minute now, her target was bound to walk out. She wasn't thinking straight, the only thing she thought about was how she had to keep her hands steady and stop shivering, or she'd miss. Taking a second shot was not an option. 

The minute the door opened, her finger flew to the trigger, target neutralized. Putting away her gun quickly, she knew she had to act fast to hide the body, or deal with a crowd yelling for someone to call an ambulance, and maybe the cops, too. She had made that mistake once. She made sure she looked entirely inconspicuous before letting herself be seen near the building. After all, she was a known face down at Sandover Enterprises. He worked there, and every day she went to pay him a visit after her last class.

Nearing the building, she saw a crowd forming around the body she was meant to be hiding. She was too late to clear the mess up without any fuss, so now she’d have to play the innocent bystander instead. As she worked her way through the crowd, she looked down, expecting to see the man in the picture she was given lying dead on the floor.

Except that it wasn't Jared. The man lying on the floor looked familiar, but not from the photograph she had of the man. It was a man with short dirty blond hair she loved running her hands in every night, not the long chocolate brown hair that flowed smoothly in the picture. It was a man with bowed legs that lead to hips she was intimately close with, instead of one with a narrow waist and legs that seemingly went on forever. She shot the wrong man. She shot _him_ ; he was dead and she would never forgive herself. 

He lay on the floor with a shot right where she lay her head on every night, dead-centered on his heart; blood staining the crisp white shirt he had just got back from the dry-cleaner and everything else it touched, too. His beautiful emerald green eyes that always shone with love as he looked at her now looked as dead as she felt inside. Someone had called an ambulance at some point, and was that where the woman pulling her away from him came from? She saw a second person standing closely by with a blanket of some sorts, and it was put around her shoulders before she had the time to react. 

That was the worst night of her life, followed closely by tonight. Tonight, she sat at a bar, knocking back glass after glass of his poison of choice. After spending all day in tears at his funeral, she felt blissfully numb with all the alcohol she’d drunk. It was almost enough to make her forget she’d be seeing him tonight, and not all the alcohol in the world could make her less excited. 

“Here’s to you, Dean.”

**Author's Note:**

> Deianira, Deïanira, or Deianeira (/ˌdeɪ.əˈnaɪərə/; Greek: Δηϊάνειρα, Dēiáneira, or Δῃάνειρα, Dēáneira, [dɛːiáneːra]), also known as Dejanira, is a figure in Greek mythology whose name translates as "man-destroyer" or "destroyer of her husband".


End file.
